good time.”
“Thank you, Rudy.”
“Excuse me, but I heard part of your conversation. Is this person who is hurt a good friend?”
“Yes, a longtime friend, and my boss.”
“Any arrests?”
“I didn’t ask. He was hurting pretty bad.”
“He black?”
“No, why?”
He shrugs. “It just popped into my head there could be a connection to the lynching. I get feelings about things sometimes.” He shrugs again. “Doesn’t sound like it, though.”
Connection? Not unless both turn out to be hate crimes. Mark said they were walking by the river but didn’t say if it was the Columbia or the Willamette. I’m guessing the Willamette since it has walkways on each side with a nice view of the downtown area from the east side. Why would someone attack them? They’re not a threat to anyone. They’re both nearing sixty and are more about exploring museums and antique stores. Neither one is effeminate so it’s hard to imagine they were selected because someone just guessed they’re gay.
As we cross Martin Luther King Boulevard, Rudy says, “Two blocks, Sam. You want me to wait?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ll pay up so you can go about your business.”
Rudy nods as he crosses Vancouver Avenue and heads toward the entrance to Emanuel. “You’re goin’ to need a ride home, right? It can be hard to get a cab this time of the evening on a Friday. I’ll wait for you.” When I start to protest, he says, “I got a break comin’ so I’ll just take it here. They got a nice cafe. If you take longer than forty-five minutes, I’ll head out.”
“Okay, Rudy. You really don’t have to do this, but I appreciate it.”
“Yes, sir. Besides, maybe someone will do my cousin a favor, the one who’s a cop in Baltimore. Being black and a cop isn’t always easy for him.” He parks the cab on the ER side of the hospital. “Where you meetin’ your buddy?”
“Good question. I forgot to ask. The front desk will know where he is.”
I’m out of the car and standing by the fender as Rudy works his girth out from behind the steering wheel. “My wife calls me ‘Fatty McButterpants,’” he says, standing and catching his breath. “I tell her it’s her fault ‘cause she’s such a good cook.”
We wind our way between several rows of parked cars. A KGW News van and a KOIN News van are parked side by side across from the ER entrance. There must have been a shooting or something.
“Always somethin’ goin’ on here,” Rudy says. “Been here lots of times with fares who got themselves sick, shot, or stabbed. One guy got all three done to him. The front desk is to the right just inside the door.”
The last time I was here I was cradling Jimmy in my arms. I shudder. I sense Rudy looking at me. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask what’s wrong.
The glass doors slide open and we hang a right into the air conditioning. The elderly woman behind the desk is talking with a large, Hawaiian-looking woman. The big woman thanks her and heads quickly toward the elevators.
“I’m looking for Mark Sanderson,” I tell the woman. “He was brought in some time today with a David Rowe.”
“You a friend or relative?”
“Friend.”
“Don’t need to look them up on the computer. Lots of people interested in them today—police, the TV. Everyone is up on the second floor. I don’t know if they will let you see them but it’s where they are. Sad about what happened. It’s been crazy,” she says, looking behind me at someone else needing directions.
“I hope everything will be okay, Sam,” Rudy says. He points to a hallway to our right. “Coffee shop is down there. I’ll wait ‘bout forty minutes, forty-five.”
I nod, too stunned to speak, and hurry toward the elevator.
The elevator doors swoosh open on the second floor to reveal a crowd of police brass and reporters. The press doesn’t look my way but the cops do, some with blank faces, a few with slow nods. Chief Rodriguez looks at me for a long moment before giving me a single nod, then continuing his conversation with Deputy Chief Glanville. My fans. Gotta love ‘em. Only Captain Regan smiles and moves toward me.
“Sam, how are you doing?” he says.
“Captain,” I say, shaking his hand. Bill Regan is the Captain of Detectives, my top boss. He’s a good one, a hundred percent supportive of his people. He and Mark have been a dream to work for. “I just got back into town. Mark was supposed to pick me up at the airport but he called me about twenty-five minutes ago. Said he and David got assaulted.”
Regan nods. “He and David were walking on the River Walk on the east side of the Willamette when some assholes jumped them, don’t know for sure how many. Thumped them good. Mark has a lot of lacerations and some torso bruising where they stomped his chest. Docs looked him over and patched some of his cuts. Nothing broken. David is in rough shape. Still unconscious. They’re doing all kinds of X-rays and scans.”
Adrenaline charges through my muscles, pushing away my jet lag. I don’t know what my eyes are doing, but Captain Regan takes a step toward me, his eyes looking intently into mine. His voice is low, his words just for my ears. “This is the time for cool heads, Sam.” I don’t say anything.
“You hear me?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He looks at me for a beat longer, then over at a camera crew. “Just once, I’d like to catch whoever calls the press whenever a cop is involved in something. Anyway, the Fat Dicks caught the case and are still in there talking to Mark. We’ll know more details when they’ve finished their—”
“Excuse me.” An Asian nurse smiles at the captain. “Are you Sam Reeves?”
“I am,” I say.
She turns toward me. “Sorry. Someone over there pointed at you two. Mark Sanderson is asking for you.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. “Captain, I’ll let you know what I find out.”
Regan nods and I follow the nurse through the crowd.
“Detective Reeves,” a female voice to my left calls out before we get to the doors. I recognize the woman as a KOIN reporter. “May we get a comment from you? Why are you here?”
“Does this have anything to do with your shooting?” asks a male voice from behind me. Shoulder mounted cameras that had been sitting on the floor are quickly lifted into place and aimed at me.
I ignore them and follow the nurse through a set of swinging doors and into a large room with a series of small rooms formed by curtains along each wall, some empty, some with their curtains drawn. Men and women in pale green scrubs dart about busily. Mark waves to me from where he is sitting outside of one of the rooms, its curtain drawn.
“Mark,”
